Inspiration
by adaon45
Summary: Prince Fflewddur is inspired by the bardic calling when he meets a character from some of my other Prydain fics.
1. The Queen

Inspiration

What is this life that pulls me far away

Where is that home where we cannot reside

--Loreena McKennitt, "Caravanserai"

_To readers of my earlier fics (especially of my note at the end of "Out of the Ashes"): I'm back, after all. But you always knew I would be, didn't you?_

_My title has a double meaning, referring not only to Prince Fflewddur's inspiration but to my own: I am immensely grateful to my forum friend CompanionWanderer for suggesting the idea for this story._

_Needless to say, while offering thanks for inspiration, I must acknowledge Lloyd Alexander. The world is his, but he has inspired me—greatly!—to visit whenever possible._

Chapter One: The Queen

The leaves on the embroidery canvas mirrored the ones framed by the casement window: tawny orange, hectic red, pure bright yellow. Flashing silver like a fish leaping upstream as it glinted in and out of the fabric, a needle outlined a leaf that, unlike the others, was still deep, vibrant green. Sole among its neighbors, it had as yet refused to adopt the dress of the dying of the year.

The woman creating this renegade leaf sat stitching with two other ladies in a round, sunny room on an upper floor of the castle. The grey stone walls were hung with brilliant tapestries, presumably of their making, like the one with the autumn scene on which they were now working. The three sewed companionably at the large canvas stretched before them, in the friendly silence of those who do not need to make small talk. The woman sewing the green leaf sat closest to the window, looking out from time to time at the glories of fall.

She seemed in her early thirties, pleasant-looking rather than beautiful, the smooth hair plaited close to her head more the color of straw than of gold. And yet, while not classically lovely, she radiated a presence, a self-contained completeness of character, that was indefinably striking. Seeing her in her russet dress, a gently amused smile lurking at the corners of her mouth, one could sense that here was a person who viewed the foibles of those about her with affection and a healthy dose of humor.

Only if one looked closely could one detect in her face a faint pallor, a slight tightening of the skin around the high cheekbones. The older, gray-haired lady sitting closest to her glanced at her now and again, an anxious crease between her eyebrows. At one point the queen—for such she was—caught the older woman's eye and smiled reassuringly. The other quickly dropped her eyes to her sewing.

The third lady, who had not noticed this interchange, looked up. She was younger than the other two, only recently entered into womanhood, and her blue eyes sparkled as she broke the silence.

"Before I came up here I heard a bard's just arrived. There'll be good cheer this evening, and"—her voice dropped conspiratorially—"Dilwen in the kitchen tells me he's young and _very_ handsome."

She giggled. The two older women smiled indulgently.

"Young Prince Fflewddur will be glad to hear there's a bard," the older woman said. She addressed the queen. "Wouldn't Your Grace say he's fond of music?"

"Yes," agreed the queen, sewing carefully at the leaf. "Every time a bard's come he's managed to sit still during all the songs. Now there's a change!" The quirk at the corner of her lips blossomed into a full-fledged smile.

"Speaking of sitting still," she added, glancing out the window and laughing, "he isn't doing so now."

The other two left their seats and came to the window too. In a corner of the greensward below, near a great tree whose remaining leaves were rich with color, a skinny boy of around eight or nine with spiky yellow hair ran in circles, slashing enthusiastically at the air with a toy sword while he held a loud, one-sided dialogue with imagined adversaries.

"Take that! And that!" the women heard. "A Fflam never surrenders!"

"He's got the right spirit," said the young woman fondly.

The queen laughed again. "That he does!"

They went back to their seats. The queen, though, continued to gaze out the window even after the others had returned to their stitching, the green leaf unfinished on the canvas before her. Her hitherto smiling face was now thoughtful, withdrawn. The older woman glanced at her again, the line of worry back on her brow. As if sensing the gaze of the other, the queen turned her eyes from the window and took up her sewing again.

And yet her face remained clouded for some time. Even after her expression regained its customary placidity, her thoughts remained far away, in some space known only to herself.

I do this so often now, the queen thought as she stitched. My mind goes back, back, back, to the beginnings of things, to how I came here and all the days since. Why is that, I wonder? Is it the way one becomes at times like this?

She sighed the smallest of sighs, as if aware her alert older companion might hear her. The woman sewed on, however, and the queen's thoughts reverted to their former channels.

It's no wonder Fflewddur enjoys it so much when a bard haps by, she thought. We haven't many visitors, after all. Most of those passing through don't intend to stay for even a little while; they're going someplace else and don't realize they've entered our kingdom until they see the castle. If they blink—here the characteristic smile crept back to her lips—they can miss even that.

Yes, when Fflewddur climbs that tree he's probably imagining all kinds of journeys he'd rather be taking, away from the handkerchief of land he'll someday inherit, a patch so small you can cross it in a day. From the top of that tree, in fact, you can probably see almost to the border. For now, though, our prince travels only inside his extraordinarily imaginative little head.

She smiled again, affection vying with amusement on her face.

Thinking of her son reminded the queen of his father, whom he greatly resembled, in mannerisms as in looks. Tall, lanky, with similarly disordered fair hair, King Godo shared with his heir a habit of sawing enthusiastically at the air when he spoke. A kindly, boyishly youthful man, Godo had a tendency to embroider the more banal realities of his life (much as I am decorating this canvas, the queen thought with a smile). When Godo spoke of his poky little kingdom in the north of Prydain, it seemed to grow grander, more golden, like everything the king described. It was not that he was a liar or a braggart; rather, he was a tale-teller, who loved regaling the few members of his court and whatever visitors ate at his table with vivid anecdotes of the glories of the House of Fflam, which after all was related to the royal House of Don, family of the High King. If Godo's stories—particularly upon frequent retellings—were enlivened by a certain coloring of imagination, one thing about Godo remained constant: his generosity. He would give the cloak off his back to any who came in need to his door, and no inhabitant of his kingdom ever starved. They were all, unsurprisingly, utterly loyal to their king, and fondly indulgent of any of his eccentricities.

I was lucky to wed such a man, the queen mused. Gwennan Daughter of Gwennant was the only daughter of the king of another small kingdom not far from Godo's. While her father was not cruel enough to force her to wed Godo, he made it clear he greatly desired the match, and at seventeen Gwennan obediently exchanged the drafty castle of one northern kingdom for that of another. Yet, happily, almost magically, the young newlyweds fell in love. Godo was entranced by his bride, whom he considered the wisest and most beautiful of women; while this was, as far as Gwennan was concerned, a prime example of his tendency to see everything as more marvelous than it actually was, she was not complaining. Godo adored her, and she—infinitely grateful to have such a considerate mate in a land where many women had worse fates—nursed for her husband an ineradicable affection, even as she smiled at his larger-than-life vision of the world.

It was well that Godo and Gwennan's relationship was strongly rooted in love, as there had been hard times along the way. For the first few years of the marriage, Gwennan had been unable to conceive. While this would have created strain in a typical royal union, in which the woman was given a role not unlike that of a brood mare, Godo showed no sign that he valued his wife any less because she had not yet given him children. Finally, Gwennan did become pregnant, and gave birth to a beautiful little girl. Again, Godo expressed not the slightest disappointment in the baby's sex, and indeed adored his daughter with as much pride as he did his wife.

And the little girl had been adorable. Remembering, Gwennan felt the tightening of her throat she always experienced when she thought of Ffion. In her mind's eye she saw her daughter's shiny blonde hair, her laughing face as she ran around the castle grounds. At three, she succumbed to a fever, leaving her parents with holes in their hearts that would never heal.

And yet, thought Gwennan, even that ache, the burden of grief I have borne for so many years, has eased lately. Well, why not, when I am coming ever closer to the time when there shall be no more pain, no more longing for those who have gone before me?

Yet now she felt heartache when she thought of Fflewddur. Fflewddur, who had come into her life and Godo's after their shattering loss, and who had been a source of great joy for his parents. Bright and good-tempered, the little boy shared his father's generosity of spirit, while also inheriting an all-too-vivid imagination. Indeed, Gwennan worried about this trait. It was common, of course, for children to spin wild tales, and to live in lands of their own making. Still, Fflewddur had a tendency to exaggerate everything, to an even greater extent than his father, who embroidered the truth but generally stuck to its basic outlines. Fflewddur never lied to get out of trouble—that was good—but he seemed to have difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality. Still, he had a sound enough heart that his mother hoped this habit would not get out of hand.

And he did, she thought, have musical ability, unlike Godo, who couldn't hold a tune to save his life. Fflewddur, on the other hand, had been able to sing, whistle, and hum quite complicated tunes from fairly early on. True, he had a tendency to bellow his favorites at the top of his lungs, especially when he was supposed to be going to bed. Presumably he could learn subtlety later.

Of course, Gwennan asked herself, what would a king do with musical talent? Well, he could at least keep himself entertained. It might prove terribly boring for Fflewddur whenever he did become king—something Gwennan found hard to think about, for this would mean his father had died. Again, she felt a pang—Fflewddur would be so alone when that happened . . .

She sighed, this time audibly. The older woman—who had been Gwennan's nurse and remained her main attendant and friend—caught her eye, concerned. Gwennan could scarcely help sighing again. Hard times lay ahead, for her and those close to her; soon that would be only too clear.

But first, tonight, there would be music.


	2. The Bard and the Prince

_Only half an hour after I posted the first chapter of this story, I heard that Lloyd Alexander had died the day before, at 83._

_It is hard to convey how this sad event has affected me. In the forum "Bards of Prydain" several of us have commented on our feelings in the aftermath of this news. Even though we never met Alexander face-to-face, we are as bereft as if we had lost a close family member—which, in some sense, we did: if not an actual relation, a mentor, friend, and guide to worlds of wonder. _

_I would like to dedicate the rest of this story—which, fittingly, is about mentoring, art, loss, and love--to Alexander's memory. In my own, very humble fashion, I try to follow in the path where he blazed the way._

Chapter Two: The Bard and the Prince

The first glimpse Prince Fflewddur had of the wandering bard was of his feet. Propped on a stool, they were encased in leather boots which, though of excellent quality, were dusty and scuffed. Peering beyond the kitchen door from his vantage point, Fflewddur could see that the feet belonged to long limbs clad in green leggings patched at the knees with jagged stitches. Holding his breath and hoping not to be spotted as he moved even further beyond the doorframe, Fflewddur finally had a full view of the visitor relaxing in one of the kitchen chairs while the cook, her assistant, and the scullery maid fed him leftovers. Fflewddur realized he need not worry overmuch about being seen; enthralled by the rare treat of a visitor—and a handsome one at that—the three women's attention was wholly fixed on the young man with whom they were talking and laughing.

Fflewddur himself could not take his eyes off the new arrival who, unlike most passing bards, was not yet grizzled or weathered by years on the road. Indeed, this one still had the boyish look of one who had just entered manhood. It was a wonder, thought Fflewddur, that he had managed to become so learned as such a tender age. It was well known that the heads of initiated bards were stuffed with knowledge gleaned from long, hard poring over dusty tomes.

If the youth was burdened with hard-won wisdom, he did not show the strain. His light brown hair—which looked as if he had cropped it himself without the aid of a mirror—framed a mobile face with finely shaped features and high cheekbones. Right now, his lips were curved in a smile, showing white, even teeth. His voice was light, musical, as boyish as his face. As if he had not had a chance to shave recently or well, scraggly hairs, a bit darker than those on his head, sprinkled his face and upper lip. He must have fairly recently started sprouting them, thought Fflewddur enviously. The prince knew several teenaged lads in the castle who sported similar stubble, which he personally thought the most wondrous of achievements.

Fflewddur didn't actually need to hide; he came often enough to the kitchen to cadge extra food or be made much of by the friendly cook and her helpers. But he stayed in the shadows near the door in order to do something grown-ups kept telling him was rude: stare.

Bards fascinated the prince. From the time his parents allowed him to stay up in the evening to hear the entertainment in the Great Hall, he had sat spell-bound by the music, poetry, and, yes, by the bards themselves, who ranged from one side of Prydain to another, singing for their supper and sharing with their audiences the treasures of the land's history and lore. Knowing that the kingdom to which he was heir could be crossed in a day, Fflewddur envied the bards their freedom of movement. How much they must see in their travels! Despite his youth, Fflewddur already knew that the calling was a hard one, trekking in all kinds of weather and not always meeting the friendliest reception. Still, given his own circumscribed view of the world, even these drawbacks seemed exciting.

Tearing his eyes from the bard, Fflewddur scanned the room for something which he soon located on a table in the back of the kitchen. There it stood: a harp with a beautiful sweeping curve of dark wood. Fflewddur's fingers itched to hold it, to pluck just a few strings. Thus far, he had never been able to do this, but here the harp stood, untended and inviting, a temptation too great to be withstood.

Glancing quickly at the bard, who was still occupied eating and laughing with the women, Fflewddur edged silently around the hall to another door which stood just behind the table with the harp. The table was far enough from the bard, and sufficiently in shadow, that he would not immediately notice the boy making free with his harp. Fflewddur did not stop to consider what would happen when he did notice. The prince was too intent on the instrument, which loomed gorgeously in front of him. But when his hand brushed its frame, he was eager enough to be clumsy. The harp swayed alarmingly and, to the prince's horror, fell off the table, only narrowly missing the stone floor when Fflewddur caught it in his arms with a jangle of strings.

"Oi!"

The bard stood before Fflewddur, hands on hips. So startled had he been by the danger to his harp that his voice shot up a notch, like that of a boy on the cusp of manhood. As if embarrassed by this reminder of his youth, the bard reddened and spoke more gruffly.

"Have a care, young master," he said, gently removing the instrument from Fflewddur's arms and replacing it carefully on the table. "My harp is my bread."

"Prince Fflewddur!" Dilwen, the cook's buxom assistant, stepped forward, giving Fflewddur, as she always did in his scapegrace moments, a look of mingled affection and admonition. Turning to the bard, she explained. "This is King Godo's and Queen Gwennan's son."

The bard raised his eyebrows, then swept Fflewddur a deep, graceful bow. "My pardon, young prince," he said, smiling. "I did not mean to offend, but I would prefer to keep my harp in one piece, if possible."

"I'm sorry," murmured Fflewddur, gazing fixedly at his toes for an embarrassed instant. Then he looked up swiftly. "Can you play it right now, so we don't have to wait until later?" he begged.

In response the bard brought the harp to his shoulder with a single fluid movement. Bowing his head, his face grew meditative. Then his hands swept the strings.

Fflewddur felt, as he always did upon hearing music, that he was happily rooted to the spot. More so than ever, indeed: though he had listened to harp music many a time, he had never heard anything quite like this. The resonant beauty had a life of its own, the tune shifting from fast to slow, from merry to poignant, as if the harp were a tree and the harper's fingers the wind sighing through its leaves in numberless patterns of light and shade.

Then, suddenly, the harp fell silent. With a smile the bard lifted it from his shoulder and the spell was broken. Fflewddur saw that the three women looked as disappointed as he felt.

"Ooh," breathed the scullery maid, a winsome lass of about sixteen. "That was _lovely_." She drew out the word as if it had three syllables.

Dilwen stepped forward. "Perhaps," she said, moving so close to the bard that her shoulder brushed his, "you'd like to put your pack in your chamber now." She moved even closer. The bard took a step back. "I'll show you the way," Dilwen continued, her voice dropping to a husky whisper.

The bard cleared his throat. "Yes, well," he replied, "thank you, but I think I can find the way myself." He reddened again, more boyish than ever.

Fflewddur had no idea why Dilwen's offer should make the bard so uncomfortable. He had, however, a request of his own.

"Would you like to see my castle outside?" he blurted out. The bard's gray-green eyes swung to the prince's face with a look of relief. Dilwen pouted, but the scullery maid spoke.

"Your pretend castle in the trees, Prince Fflewddur?" The youngest of the kitchen staff, she sometimes, when her work was done, watched Fflewddur while he played outside, a task that—though she would never admit it—allowed her to enjoy the kind of games she had supposedly outgrown.

Fflewddur brightened. "That's it." He turned to the bard. "Would you like to come? Please?"

"Yes," the bard said firmly. "I would love to." Sweeping the misty-eyed women another of his graceful bows, he also bowed again to Fflewddur and, gesturing him to lead the way, followed the prince out of the kitchen.

Stepping from the castle's dim grayness they blinked in the bright autumn sun. Scarcely daring to believe that a bard had deigned to venture into his little-boy world, Fflewddur delightedly proceeded to the large tree under which Queen Gwennan had earlier spotted him playing.

"This is my castle," he announced importantly, gesturing at walls that only he could see. "And this," he added, venturing under one of the tree's loftiest boughs, "is the Great Hall." He looked proudly at the bard. "It is the grandest in the land," he intoned in the most regal voice he could muster.

"Is it now?" smiled the bard, laying down his harp and pack and sitting down beneath a tree.

"Indeed," continued Fflewddur, taking in, with one of his father's expansive gestures, the entire greensward. "The House of Fflam is second only in valor to the House of Don," He spoke for a moment in a more normal voice. "They're our relatives, you know." Then, resuming his earlier grandiloquence, he went on. "King Fflewddur is the scourge of his enemies, the bravest of warriors, the most trusted of the High King's allies . . ." He trailed off, wondering what else he could add. "And," he finally said, "the king is beloved by all the bards of Prydain. He himself," he warmed to his subject," is as learned as the Chief Bard Taliesin!"

Another smile crossed his auditor's face as he gestured for Fflewddur to take a seat beside him under the tree.

"You've heard of Taliesin?" he asked the prince, once Fflewddur had settled himself upon a carpet of fallen leaves.

Looking up at the bright, handsome face beside him, Fflewddur desperately wanted to impress the young man. He often wanted to impress people, and now more than ever, when he met someone who was, as he suddenly realized, what he most wanted one day to be himself. A familiar feeling coursed through his veins, a warm, reckless sensation like the one he got when his father allowed him a few sips of mulled mead. At such times Fflewddur uttered words that surprised even himself. This happened now.

"Taliesin," he proclaimed, "has told me that he himself will instruct me how to play the harp." Noting the slightly skeptical look on the bard's face, he plunged on. "We often go to Caer Dathyl, since the High King relies so on my father's judgment. Taliesin," he improvised wildly, hoping to add convincing details, "is very, very old, with a white beard right down to the floor."

The bard raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?" he queried dryly. "He must have lost the beard somewhere. When I saw him several months ago, at my bardic examinations, he was clean-shaven."

Silence spread slowly between them like a widening pool of water.

Aware that he was reddening to the tip of a nose which, while still childishly rounded, would soon be long and pointy, Fflewddur stared miserably at his knees. It had happened again: his tongue had run away from him, and he had been found out. Words he had heard uttered by castle guards and a few of the newly-bearded teenage boys flitted through his head. But he had not yet dared use such language, and feared moreover it would only lower him further in the bard's estimation. As it was, he resorted to the next-wickedest words in his vocabulary.

"_Drat_," he muttered fiercely.

"And _blast,_" he added for good measure.

He thought he heard a faint, quickly suppressed chuckle. Normally Fflewddur, like most children, would be indignant at being laughed at by an adult. But not only was the chuckle considerately stifled, it was proof that the bard—whom he had wished so much to impress—was not frowning at the prince's lack of truthfulness.

Tentatively raising his head, Fflewddur glanced at the bard, who was regarding him closely but kindly.

"You've met Taliesin, then?" asked Fflewddur in a small voice. Why hadn't he thought of that before?

"Yes," replied the bard. "As I said, when I presented myself to the Bardic Council for initiation."

Fflewddur dared look him in the eye. "I've never met him," he admitted.

"So I gathered," said the bard delicately. He regarded the prince. "Why did you say you had, then?" His tone was less censorious than curious.

"I don't know," Fflewddur murmured. Then suddenly, as if long pent inside him, words burst out.

"It's so boring here. And so—so _small_. You can see almost to the borders from the top of that tree. It's not that anyone comes here either, unless it's a wandering bard like you, or someone going someplace else. I've never been to Caer Dathyl, though I badly want to. We may be kin to the Sons of Don, but they're there and we're, well—_here_."

He paused for breath, then continued. "I keep climbing that tree," he said, gazing up at it wistfully "imagining what it would be like to go beyond what I can see. I'd love to see _everything_. I wish," he ended, sighing, "I could be like you, going wherever you want, and playing music too."

The bard did not reply at once, but seemed to consider Fflewddur's words. "I know myself," he finally said slowly, "what it is to feel trapped, like you can't do what you most want to."

"But you're doing what you want now," interrupted Fflewddur. "You're a bard."

"Yes," admitted the young man. "Now, I am a bard." He placed a slight emphasis on the word "now." Then, again, he paused, choosing his words carefully.

"Once you're grown," he went on, "there's no reason you can't go where you want to."

"But at some point I'll be king," said Fflewddur. "I'll have to stay here."

"Well, even kings can get away sometimes. And," the bard leaned closer to Fflewddur, "you can always travel _here_." He pointed to his head. "You always have your imagination. It will take you wherever you want to go. I gather," he smiled, "you like using your imagination."

Fflewddur thought about this a moment. "Sometimes," he said, "the things I say—like what I said about meeting Taliesin—it's as if I'm pretending the world is the way I want it to be, rather than the way it really is."

"That's what imagination is for," replied the bard. "But"—he fixed Fflewddur with a half-stern, half-smiling gaze—"it's better to make it clear when you're making things up." Fflewddur glanced, embarrassed, at his knees again. "Yet," added the bard, "it strikes me you could be a good storyteller, if you just made sure people knew that what you were telling them was of your own invention."

"And," he continued, "you love music too, don't you? I could tell by the way you looked while I played in the kitchen." Fflewddur nodded fervently.

"Well," said the bard, "why not learn to play the harp yourself? You don't need Taliesin next door to do that. In fact, why not study to be a bard if you want to?"

Fflewddur gulped. "But I said I have to be a king when I grow up. I don't have a choice."

"But lore tells us there have been bard-kings before," the young man pointed out. He smiled. "Maybe one day you will meet Taliesin, as I did, when you take your examinations."

"Is he wonderful?" Fflewddur asked.

The bard smiled a small, private smile. "Yes," he said quietly, "he is wonderful."

They were silent a moment. Then the bard lifted his harp from the ground and handed it to Fflewddur. "Here," he said kindly, "why don't you try it?"

Dazed by his good fortune, Fflewddur nevertheless took care not to drop the harp this time. Indeed, he handled it as if it were made of spun glass. The bard encouraged him to relax, then showed him how to hold it and place his hands on the strings.

"There," the young man said, "pluck that one now. That's good—but do it thus, a bit cleaner."

They worked at the lesson for a while. Fflewddur's face was shining, even as he winced at the way his fingertips stung from plucking the strings.

"You get calluses soon enough," laughed the bard, showing Fflewddur his own fingers. "Now," he said, rising from the grass after the prince returned his harp, "I fear I must be going inside to prepare for the night's festivities. You must promise me, though, that you will ask for more harp lessons!"

"And then," Fflewddur sprang to his feet, "it will be only a short time before I pass my examinations! Taliesin will be most impressed!" He stopped, seeing the bard gently raise an eyebrow.

"At least," Fflewddur added quickly, "I will do my best. After all, a Fflam always does."


	3. The Song

Chapter Three: The Song

The chamber was pleasanter than was generally the lot of wandering bards: small but exquisitely clean, with a soft couch, washstand, and even a window. Although bards of the harp were supposed to be treated as honored guests wherever they stayed, all too often one ended up bedding on a lumpy pallet, or even a clump of smelly hay in the stables. It was rare to get a room of one's own, let alone a room as comfortable as this.

Exhausted, the bard fell gratefully on the couch, pack and harp both having been deposited in a corner along with the leather boots. It felt delicious to rest her sore feet.

The pronoun was no mistake: the bard who travelled under the name of Celyn Son of Celynen was, in fact, Cerys Daughter of Ceindeg, the first woman to achieve initiation into the bardic ranks for quite some time. It had only been a few months since she had dazzled the Council of Bards with her erudition, particularly the Chief Bard Taliesin, who, unlike more conservative colleagues, welcomed the addition of women to the profession.

Having scored such a triumph, however, Cerys was not satisfied with sitting at home afterward. She did not want to be a bard in name only. Rather, she wished to share the footloose life that would enable her to see more of Prydain than just the empty, drafty manor she had inherited from her parents. It was, however, considered hopelessly depraved for a woman. especially a gently born one, to travel alone. Not to mention that to do so exposed one to the very real risk of sexual assault. No, Cerys could not be a wandering bard and wear a skirt at the same time.

So she exchanged her skirt for male attire, cropped her hair and—with the aid of her best friend and delighted accomplice Rhiangar—fixed horse hairs to her face with glue to mimic a straggling beard. In order to make this pretend stubble as realistic as possible, Cerys carried a small mirror in her pack so she could see what she was doing whenever she renewed it. She and Rhiangar had given every aspect of her costume the same careful attention to detail, binding her breasts close to her body and providing necessary padding elsewhere. It seemed to have worked only too well, Cerys thought, grinning, as she lay on the couch. The cook's assistant had been quite taken with her. Lucky Cerys had been able to escape her clutches before Dilwen discovered that the focus of her attraction was a woman. Somehow Cerys doubted her tastes ran in that direction.

Of course, the disguise could not have worked save for several happy accidents of fate. From the time she was a child Cerys had possessed an uncanny ability to imitate the voices of all around her, male as well as female. She had often entertained her family and friends with faithful impressions of them, including her father and all five of Rhiangar's brothers. Moreover, her singing voice spanned an extraordinary range, from the high notes one would expect of a woman to throaty low ones that sounded for all the world like those of a young man whose voice had recently broken. Without these abilities Cerys would never have been able to bring off her male impersonation, because usually a man's and a woman's voice sound quite different. Here too, though, Cerys was helped by the fact that a bard did not always have to sing while performing. A good deal of the music one played was wordless, and moreover the battle lays beloved of Prydainian audiences were usually declaimed, which allowed Cerys to resort to her version of a male speaking voice.

When she did sing, Cerys had to be careful to stick to her lowest range. It was stressful, of course, being constantly on the watch for the involuntary escape of feminine intonations. For example, her heart had beat fast that very afternoon after she had been startled into a near-squeak when her harp almost smashed. Fortunately, people seemed to accept her disguise sufficiently to assume any girlish sounds issuing from her mouth were signs she had only recently achieved manhood. Well, in a sense, so she had.

Yet the disguise had its price. One can only speak and sing in an assumed voice for so long. Cerys was glad she had only planned to travel for one barding-and-wandering season, from spring to autumn, because she was certain she could not further withstand the strain. Indeed, she was afraid she might already have permanently damaged her voice; her throat often ached horribly after a night's performance. Yet, even as she hoped her vocal chords would recover, she could not regret her choices. She had seen and learned so much on the road—far more than she could ever have done forswearing the wandering life. For a brief time she had been free to go wherever she wanted, too rare a gift for a woman to renounce.

She smiled, thinking of another reason she was ready to abandon her disguise. Funny that the young prince had mentioned Taliesin—and indeed made her snort at the image of the Chief Bard with a floor-length white beard. She, too, had once imagined Taliesin as an ancient sage, before she discovered at her examinations that he was only middle-aged and much handsomer than she could have anticipated. It was Taliesin who drew her to the great castle of Caer Dathyl in the north, where she had been offered a place after her exams, and even lessons from the Chief Bard himself. While she had had time in the last few months to realize the depth of her feelings for him, however, she was only too aware of the difference in their ages and rank in the bardic hierarchy to assume she could easily win his heart. Well, at least she could try.

Thinking of the prince's comments on Taliesin reminded Cerys of the prince himself. Sitting up, and pulling on her boots preparatory to going to the Great Hall for the evening's performance, she realized she had found him quite endearing, for all his tall-tale-telling. Perhaps, in fact, that very habit had made him the more appealing. Normally, it wouldn't; people who evaded the truth tended to be unwholesome sorts. But the lad seemed to have a good heart, and he had been sincerely ashamed when he realized she knew he was not telling the truth about Taliesin.

Ruefully, Cerys realized that she herself was not telling the truth: she was practicing an imposture, after all, even though she felt she had no choice if she were to right the injustice of women's being debarred from activities open to men. That might be exactly the reason, though,why she found herself fond of Fflewddur: they both wanted to range beyond the boundaries that hemmed them in. While being a prince was a privileged position, the boy's choices were still circumscribed, even as hers had been. True, as a male he could probably do more to overcome his obstacles than she had hers. But she sympathized with his frustration a being stuck in a role he didn't want, and hoped he would seriously consider the bardic calling. Remembering his rapt expression as he listened to her music, his glowing face as he plucked the harpstrings, she guessed that, unless she were much mistaken, he had the heart of a true bard. And goodness knows, she smiled, he could create amazing stories if he harnassed the considerable force of that wayward imagination.

Tuning her harp in the Great Hall that evening, Cerys immediately caught sight of Fflewddur, looking extremely excited as he sat next to his mother and father at table. Even if King Godo and Queen Gwennan had not been wearing gold diadems, Cerys would have known them at once for the prince's parents. Fflewddur looked most like his father, with the same long nose and untameable blonde hair, but the prince had also inherited his mother's high cheekbones and the shape of her face.

Queen Gwennan, Cerys saw, was as placid as her son and husband were boyishly enthusiastic. She looked very kind and pleasant as she sat there in her red gown, next to a gray-haired woman who seemed her closest attendant. Yet Cerys felt a mild tremor of something troubling—grief or pain—radiating from Gwennan despite her calm expression. It was not the first time Cerys had been so affected. Probably as a result of having enchantress ancestors on her family tree, she would sometimes feel, as she did now, as if she had received portents of things normally invisible to the eye. As usual, though, the sensation was indistinct, fleeting, and dissolved quickly amidst the happy bustle of the Great Hall.

As considerate as they had been in the choice of her chamber, Godo and Gwennan made sure the bard was properly fed before the evening's entertainment. All too often, Cerys had had to content herself—after singing herself hoarse—with the most unappetizing leavings of the night's meal. Better nourished on this occasion, she played tunes on her harp during the feast, background music to the buzz of conversation. Small as was the kingdom, every available member of the court, including the servants, had turned out to hear the bard. Dilwen tried to catch Cerys's eye several times before giving up resignedly.

After the main part of the feast was over, and everyone sat back eating the cook's pastries and drinking wine, Cerys became the center of attention as she began to sing. The first few times she had done this she had been terrified, beset not only by nerves about performing but fear of being found out as a woman. By this time, though, she was considerably calmer and, indeed, enjoyed singing tunes which were often of her own composition.

On this evening Cerys moved from battle lays—blessedly easy on her voice—to rollicking ballads as her audience gave her their flatteringly rapt attention.

At the conclusion of one particularly cheerful number Cerys, standing in front of the table where sat the royal family, caught the queen's eye. Then it happened again: trembling in the air between Gwennan and herself she felt sorrow vibrating on the air like a note she had just plucked on the strings. Indeed, as Cerys gazed into Gwennan's eyes the Great Hall seemed to melt away, leaving the two women isolated like twin islands in a sea of light. At the same time, Cerys was pierced to the heart with a sword of such intense sadness, such an inexpressible sense of loss, that she almost cried out in agony. As if she herself were seeing through Gwennan's eyes, she suddenly knew what it felt like to be a mother about to leave her son forever, before he was grown. She knew the queen's secret, and knew at the same time that Godo and Fflewddur as yet did not.

Gwennan was dying. The eyes locked on hers were calm, but the queen knew that Cerys knew, and was grateful that at last someone shared the burden she had borne alone for so long.

Though it seemed to last an age, the silent communication between the two women was over in an instant. Bowed under a weight of sorrow, Cerys felt, suddenly, immensely older. The queen's eyes were still on hers. Slowly, Cerys lifted her harp to her shoulder, not yet knowing what she would play next. Her hands decided for her, moving over the strings in a song Cerys had never heard before but which poured out of her as surely as if she had always known it. Achingly beautiful, the wordless tune was not so much a lament as the farewell of a departing soul. The only thing that kept the song from being unbearable was that the soul leaving this life had loved and been loved, so it was fulfillment, rather than despair, that charged the air as the notes spilled from the harp. Even so, a terrible grief at the impending separation from the world and the people who had been so dearly loved vibrated with every chord.

The Great Hall was utterly still, after-dinner sounds suspended. Cerys's audience was spell-bound, though puzzled by emotions they could not fathom. As the last notes trembled in the air Cerys saw that the queen was weeping quietly, though she appeared to be explaining to the concerned Godo that this was merely a response to the beauty of the music. Godo himself seemed on the verge of tears, though Cerys sensed he still had no idea of the song's true import.

Once again Gwennan caught Cerys's eye, smiling tremulously. "A more cheerful tune this time," she asked the bard.

And so Cerys returned to her ballads until it was time for the evening's entertainment to conclude. After bowing to the royal family, she was about to leave when Gwennan called her back.

"Come and see me tomorrow," the queen commanded. "I would hear more of your music before you go."

Fflewddur caught up with Cerys before she reached the door. His face was shining.

"That was marvelous!" he exclaimed. "Even the sad song. It made everyone weepy, you know, especially Mother. I can tell she likes you, even if you made her cry."

"My favorites were the battle lays," he continued. "Or perhaps the ballads . . . it's hard to decide."

Cerys's heart smote her. The boy was so happy, so unaware of his mother's impending fate. She hated to think of the pain he would soon feel. But it was not for her to break the news.

"Please say you'll come back," Fflewddur begged. She didn't want to disappoint him, but she had to tell the truth. Well, at least part of it.

"I fear I will not be coming this way any time soon," she said gently. Noting his crestfallen expression, she added, "Yet perhaps we shall meet again one day, Son of Godo. And don't forget the harp lessons!"

Exhausted by travel, her performance, and the intense emotions of the evening, Cerys's sleep was like a cloak of black velvet that covered her every sense. And yet, just before she awoke, she had a dream.

She was playing her harp, alone, by the tree under which she had sat with Fflewddur the afternoon before. Suddenly, though she felt no wind, the red-gold autumn leaves with which the branches were laden fell like a snowstorm, so thickly that she was temporarily blinded. When she could see again, the ground was blanketed as if by a carpet of rubies, but every branch of the tree was bare, exposed to the wind that now rose biting and raw.

Only at the very top of the tree, glowing jewel-like, was a single green leaf. Laying her harp on the carpet of fallen leaves Cerys climbed the branches, trying desperately to reach it. She wasn't sure what she intended to do with the leaf once she got to it, but she had some dim notion of protecting it from the howling wind, or simply touching it, as if to infuse into her own body some essence of its courage in refusing to fall with the rest. As she was edging along the last bough, however, holding out her hand, a great gust of wind blew her right off. Yet instead of crashing downward she floated to the ground as gently as if she were an autumn leaf herself.

At the foot of the tree, where she had left it, was her harp. But it was not exactly as she had left it: the wooden frame had been replaced by intertwined leaves, each the same luminous emerald as the one she had tried to reach. And, as the wind swept the strings, the harp began to sing of itself, a song that, unlike the one she had sung for Gwennan the night before, was filled with a joy so vivid, so profound, that when she woke she wept at being able to hear it no longer.


	4. A Green Leaf

_By the way, did anyone spot the Virginia Woolf reference in the last chapter? Being an English professor, I couldn't help making it—and, being a feminist academic, I thought it particularly appropriate to Cerys's situation. Hint: the phrase I quote is the title of a well-known work by Woolf on women writers._

Chapter Four: A Green Leaf

Mulling over her puzzling dream, on the morning after her performance Cerys went, as Gwennan had requested, to see the queen. Her guide up the tower stairs to Gwennan's sewing room was the gray-haired woman who had sat next to the queen the night before. Since the woman looked like she could be fiercely protective of her mistress, Cerys braced herself to be frowned at for making the queen weep. Yet the attendant—who gave her name as Gwynora—smiled kindly at Cerys, even though she seemed preoccupied by some concern or worry. Remembering what she had learned about the queen the evening before, Cerys thought she could guess what the worry was.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Gwynora ushered Cerys in and descended herself. Cerys was surprised to be left alone with the queen. She would have expected some other attendant in the room, but Gwennan sat by herself in the sunny chamber. Clad this morning in a green dress, the queen worked on the canvas of a small embroidery frame. The larger frame that held the tapestry of autumn leaves which she worked on with her ladies had, for the time being, been pushed against a wall near the window.

Seeing Gwennan bathed in morning light, Cerys, now alert for such signs, noted the slight pallor and pinched skin. Gwennan also held herself stiffly, as if she were in pain. Yet when she spotted Cerys her face broke into a smile. After Cerys swept her a deep bow, Gwennan, laying aside her embroidery, patted the cushion of the chair next to hers.

"Have a seat, dear."

Cerys froze.

The queen laughed. "You need not look as if I were about to seduce you," she chided gently. "Let me be more precise: have a seat, dear _girl_." She laid a slight emphasis on the last word.

Cerys froze again. Then she whispered, "How did you know?"

"Don't worry," said the queen. "It wasn't anything you did. It's remarkable, really—however do you manage the voice? Quite convincing. But somehow I knew last night, when we looked at each other before that song. I know your secret, and"—she smiled sadly—"you know mine."

In answer Cerys knelt in front of Gwennan and took the woman's hands in her own. "I am so sorry," she murmured, tears coming into her eyes.

Gwennan squeezed Cerys's hands. "It's a relief, frankly, to know that someone else knows. Gwynora has her suspicions, mind you—has had for some time—but I've done my best to hide the worst from her for a while, at least. It will be hard on her, having been my nurse and all—not to mention hard on the others."

Her voice shook slightly.

"How long have you known?" Cerys asked.

Gwennan sighed. "For the last few months. There have been symptoms, but not, as yet, so obvious most people would notice. I did consult a healer, an old woman who lives near the castle. She's the only one, beside yourself, who knows for sure."

"My mother had something like it," Gwennan continued. "She became ill when I was a young girl of around fourteen. It was as if a canker consumed one of her breasts, and then invaded her body. She died slowly, painfully. With myself—it's not my breast, but I think the ailment has attacked my womb. I can only hope I die easier than my mother, not just for my own sake, but for Fflewddur's and Godo's. They'll find out soon—the pain is getting worse, more frequent, harder to hide. I've been taking herbs, but soon I'll have to take such quantities I'll be asleep most of the time. When I'm not in pain."

Cerys found herself unable to speak. She could only press Gwennan's hands, bowing her head. The queen smiled at her.

"There, there," she said. "I can't say I'm happy about such a destiny, but I have had a good life. I've been blessed, really. Not all women are so fortunate to love, and be loved, as I have been. But I worry about Godo and Fflewddur. Especially Fflewddur. It's hard for a boy to lose his mother."

Her voice shook again.

Steadying it, Gwennan looked down at Cerys. "You've met Fflewddur, haven't you? Last night he told me you gave him a harp lesson."

"Yes," Cerys admitted. "I've met him. He's a lovely lad, very sweet, and I believe he has real musical talent. I urged him to continue the lessons."

"I'll make sure his father knows," said Gwennan. "I've often thought Fflewddur was musical myself." She sighed a small sigh. "Did our prince treat you to any of his tall tales? He is, alas, rather fond of them. A bit too fond, for my taste. It's one of the things I worry about."

"Yes," Cerys said, "he did tell me an extravagant story about meeting the Chief Bard." Gwennan groaned, even while smiling ruefully. "Don't worry," Cerys added quickly, "we had a bit of a talk about the proper uses of imagination. Prince Fflewddur wants to impress people rather desperately, but he has a sound heart, and conscience too." She told Gwennan about the boy's reaction after his lack of truthfulness was exposed. "I think he could put that story-telling gift to better use. There have, after all, been bard-kings before in Prydain."

"Yes," murmured Gwennan, "surely the business of governing this kingdom would not take up so much time one couldn't have a bit left over for some more creative occupation." Her expression brightened. "And now," she went on, "it's time for me to hear your story, dear. Sit by me, and tell me how a young woman like yourself should be having such an adventurous time."

And so Cerys sat next to Gwennan and told her all about how she became a bard, and how she determined to live a bard's life as fully as she could. Gwennan was amused at some of the details. "Horse hair! Well, now that I look closer I suppose so it is. But I never would have guessed."

The queen insisted that Cerys play for her—"cheerful songs today"—and sing in her true voice. "Never fear, no one will hear you up here."

They passed a most companionable morning. Gwennan's pain seemed to have eased, or been eased by the music and friendship. She managed to extract from Cerys the reason the young woman was returning to Caer Dathyl—not that Cerys tried to conceal it from a sympathetic soul.

"Of course you have to see if you can win his heart," the queen proclaimed when Cerys told her about Taliesin. "I'd be surprised if he could withstand you, frankly. Don't scruple to tell him your true feelings when the moment is right."

Finally, reluctantly, Cerys rose to go. She started to bow to Gwennan—realizing almost immediately she should probably curtsey instead. But the queen, typically waving ceremony aside, enfolded Cerys in a hug, which the young woman gladly returned.

As Cerys prepared to depart she and Gwennan heard a familiar voice on the greensward below. The women went to the window, and smiled to see Fflewddur engaged, as he had been the day before, in loudly vanquishing imaginary opponents of the House of Fflam.

Turning from the window, Cerys caught sight of the tapestry frame Gwennan had been working on the previous day. The young woman gasped.

There, as in her dream, a green leaf stubbornly clung to the branch of a tree whose other leaves had fallen.

"What is it?" asked the queen curiously, noting Cerys's surprise.

Cerys told her about the dream. Gazing down at the tapestry, the queen looked thoughtful.

"I was going to stitch an autumn leaf," she said, "but somehow I ended up creating that one instead. I guess I am trying to believe that, somehow, life can face down death. But you dreamed of it," she said wonderingly to Cerys. "Just as you perceived my secret last night, you also saw this." She gazed at the leaf again.

"Probably the enchantress blood in my background," Cerys murmured.

"Perhaps," said Gwennan. "Perhaps, though, you see what others do not because you are a true bard. You can see to the heart of things ordinary mortals miss." She looked again at Cerys, her expression anxious. "What do you make of it?" she asked urgently. "The part of your dream where the frame of the harp turns into green leaves? The song the harp played before your dream ended? I need to understand," she begged, "I need to know, before my own end, what it all means. As much as I can, anyway."

"I think," said Cerys slowly, "that it is as you said: life, finally, is stronger than death. Or, at least, if we have the courage to believe this"—she remembered the leaf clinging bravely to the branch—"that, in itself, is comfort enough." She considered another moment. "And I think the transformation of the harp frame reminds us that art helps life triumph over death. Art keeps memory, and love, alive forever. Maybe," she mused, "If he chooses the artist's life, Fflewddur will find that out one day."

Perched on a branch of his favorite tree, Prince Fflewddur watched the bard walking past the castle gates and off, off, off until he seemed to disappear into the horizon itself. Like his mother and Cerys, Fflewddur saw the bard's harp frame as something significant, although he did not yet perceive how it could be a green gateway of hope. For the prince, at this moment, the instrument's frame was a door, and he looked through it into all the worlds he could ever wish to explore.


End file.
